


Shed No More Tears

by Nostalgic_Kitty



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Apologies, Art too!, Boys Arguing, Charles PUNCH, Fix-It, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, M/M, Reconciliation, Suicide, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 06:27:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1847842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nostalgic_Kitty/pseuds/Nostalgic_Kitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1973, Charles Xavier kills himself. Now Erik must put all he has into stopping this event from ever happening.</p><p>Based on this prompt:  http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/11912.html?thread=23055496#t23055496</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> TW: suicide. Though that should be obvious from the description.
> 
> Sad fic is sad, but also fix-it, so fear not!

Charles Xavier kills himself on January 29th, 1973.

It’s 2pm. It’s just after the Paris Peace Accords, just after he feels Raven’s mind break as she is tortured and dissected by Stryker. Hank runs out of serum due to a miscalculation and all Charles can hear is Raven’s silent pain, filling his mind and swirling around him in a relentless storm until she passes out and all goes eerily quiet. Charles sits with his hands fisted in his long, unkempt hair as he sobs uncontrollably against the pain—her pain, his pain, the pain of the world. Suddenly, very suddenly, it is all too much. It needs to end. _So end it_ , whispers a voice in Charles’ head. He rolls himself to his father’s study, to the bottom left drawer and the gun that it contains—the one that, ironically, killed his father. With trembling, sweat-slick fingers Charles brings the gun up to his head and pulls the trigger.

Hank finds him immediately after, startled out of his urgent lab work by the noise. Charles is slumped over in his chair, blood dripping from the head that only brief moments ago held the greatest mind in the world. Gently, Hank lifts Charles’ head and feels for a pulse, letting him droop back down like a wilted flower after he finds none. Staring down at the blood marring his hands, Hank begins to turn, blue fur sprouting up along the ridges of his palms. In his anger, Hank destroys the desk and two lamps, crying out in base, animal grief.

*

All the while, the man Charles once loved sits rotting away beneath the pentagon, oblivious until he breaks out two years later. Erik uses his new-found freedom to immediately head to the mansion, certain that Charles will forgive him once he knows that Erik was never responsible for the president’s death.

Instead of Charles and Hank, all Erik finds is a dilapidated building and a tombstone in the garden.

All the remaining metal in the house crumples in on itself at once as Erik weeps with his hands fisted in the grass.

*

In all the years that follow, Erik never forgets that date. It’s the first thing Hank says to him when Erik hunts him down to understand what happened,

“January 29th, 1973. 2 pm,” Hank says, seriously and bitterly. “That’s when it happened. And all because of _you_.”

The last sentence is punctuated with a threatening bearing of teeth. Then Hank leaves Erik and stalks from the room. Erik stays behind and wonders how things went so wrong.

It’s a near thing, a miracle, that Erik doesn’t follow Charles down the same path.

*

Erik spends the rest of his life trying to make up for what the world has lost: building up the school, starting the X-men in Charles’ name. Nurturing, leading, guiding generation after generation of mutants. Yet he can’t help but feel like all that he accomplishes is only half as good as that that Charles would have accomplished. Even Erik’s best will never be enough, but it’s what Charles would have wanted. So Erik keeps moving forward regardless.

And when the sentinels come, when they go into hiding, he vows to protect these children with all he has.

*

The thing that hurts the most, the thing that haunts Erik always, is this: in the slim piece of time nestled down between sleeping and waking, he forgets. And for that one moment, Charles is alive and well. For that moment, he’s reconciled with him and they are together, happy and united. He sleeps in Charles’ bed, surrounded by Charles’ scent, and he full well expects Charles to be lying next to him, peaceful and asleep.

And then he realizes, silently cries to himself, and begins his day.

Eventually, Erik runs out of tears due to pure exhaustion.


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the interest in this! And with only 600 words posted, too. I now officially have this whole thing planned out to a projected 10 full chapters, with the previous prologue and an epilogue bringing the chapter count up to 12. This is going to be a long one, so hope you all enjoy! : )

The years have worn Erik down to a thin afterimage of the man he once was. Some would say he’s gone soft and weak, but Erik knows the difference between pure weakness and strength through vulnerability. After all, the man he loves and aches for more each year taught him that. He’d be hard-pressed to forget that advice now, in the midst of desolation. Even with the sentinels growing nearer every day, Erik must have hope. The children’s lives depend on it.

Erik has long since stopped considering his life to be worth more than the good and protection it can give to others. Hiding underground—in tombs and catacombs, empty warehouses and abandoned industrial plants—Erik can only pray to a God he hasn’t believed in since a bullet lodged itself into his mother’s heart that his worthless life will be enough to save them.

_Charles would have loved them, every single one_ , Erik thinks, reflecting on each of the children’s faces and the way he has watched them grow under his protection. Bobby, Kitty, Ororo, Marie—and so many more. Erik has done his best to teach them all the way Charles would have taught them, before he lost all hope: a pacifistic morality tempered by the need to do what is right and defend themselves. If you had told Erik in his youth—the Erik Charles knew and loved regardless—that some 15 years later he would be espousing nonviolence and compassion, he would have told you to stop fucking with him. Staring lovingly at the strained forms of all his students, Erik wonders how he ended up where he is now.

( _But of course, Erik knows_ exactly _how he ended up here. Charles Xavier killed himself and the rest followed, naturally and painfully._ )

But if this plan works, maybe Erik can change that. Maybe Charles won’t have to die this time. Erik watches as Kitty follows him into the base, walking swiftly through the carved arches. He studies her face and hopes that she’s ready for this. Without her, the plan is nothing.

*

Entering the inner rooms of the monastery, Erik pulls together everything he has and turns to face the others gathered around. The candlelit interior flickers with shadows and the stained glass sends swirling patterns of colors over everything. _It’s a beautiful place to die_ , Erik thinks. For if this doesn’t work, if the plan fails, surely this will be a tomb for them all. This is their last chance to set things right.

Everyone stares at him expectantly, waiting to hear what he will say. They all know they’ve reached the end of their means to escape the sentinels, that this is it. They’re looking to him for hope, and Erik knows he must offer it. Without hope and the bonds of love that hold them together, they are nothing.

“My friends, I’m afraid we can’t escape them any longer. The sentinels will come, and this time they will come in numbers far greater than we can handle. If we are to truly end this war, we must end it before it has even begun,” Erik says gravely. The others look confused, but Kitty seems to have some idea of what Erik must be getting at, turning towards him with dawning realization on her face.

“End it before it’s begun? What do you mean, exactly?” Kitty asks, puzzled but clearly beginning to understand.

“My dear girl, it means exactly what you think it means,” Erik says, looking with love at one of his favorite students. “You must send me back, back to before the sentinel program gained congressional support. I need to end things myself.”

“I can send someone back a couple of days, a week, maybe a month even—but you’re talking about decades. Your mind would break, Professor Lehnsherr, and I won’t risk that,” Kitty says, a deep sadness lodged in her eyes.

“Kitty, we _must_. There are no other options left at our disposal. I won’t let you all die here!” Erik says vehemently. He must protect his students, he _must_ , and if the only way is to risk his life, then so be it. “You must understand this: everything can be reset if we only stop one singular event from occurring. The sentinel program began in the 1973, when Mystique—whom I once knew as Raven—killed the man behind its inception, Bolivar Trask, at the Paris Peace Accords. His death only acted to further incite the humans to fear us! And Mystique was captured and dissected, pulled apart until they unlocked the secret to her ever-changing mutation. _This_ is what made the sentinels so strong, the reason why our brothers and sisters and those humans that dared to support us are rotting away in cells right now. I need to make this right!”

“But Professor, your mind is physically incapable of surviving such a journey,” Kitty says, sympathetically gripping Erik’s hand in her far smaller one. “I know how important this is, but we simply can’t do that to you, especially when you won’t even make it back to 1973!”

Everyone glances around the room, defeated, waiting for Erik to tell them it’s the end. But off to the side, Logan looks contemplative and determined. Finally, he turns towards Erik and speaks,

“What if someone could survive? What if someone’s mind has a way of snapping back, no matter how broken it gets?” He says, a glint of hope shining in his eyes. Erik looks to Logan and feels the hope he had almost given up on take root once more.

“That—that just might work. Kitty, is that possible?” Erik asks.

“I mean—theoretically? We can’t know for sure unless we try,” Kitty says, a hint of hope coloring her words as well.

“It’s our last chance. Of course we’re going to try,” Logan says determinately. “So I wake up in my younger body, and then what? Find Mystique and stop her?”

“It’s going to be more complicated than that, Logan. You’re going to need me to help you find her. You must find me and take me with you,” Erik says, apprehensive to reveal the location at which he can be found.

“Okay, so where can I find you, Professor? At the school?”

“Not—not quite. You’ll find me one hundred floors below the pentagon in a concrete box, actually,” Erik says, eyes downcast with embarrassment.

“W-what? Come again, Professor Lehnsherr?” Kitty says, bewildered. Erik sighs and braces himself to explain, but then decides against it. They are running out of time.

“I can explain that later. All that matters now is that you go back and get me out, Logan,” Erik says. “You may be surprised at who you find, however. I was a very different man, filled with rage and hatred. I was lost and alone, uncertain of the path I should follow.

If I should question you at all, you must promise me one thing: you will give me this date—January 29th, 1973 at 2pm—and ensure me that I told you it was imperatively important. That’s all the information I’ll need to trust you. Logan, listen closely; you are going to have to teach me to love again, the way I once taught you to look past your own anger.”

“I’m not the best with love,” Logan jokes, before staring searchingly at Erik. “I promise, Professor. I’ll do everything I goddamn can to end this war.”

So Erik watches as Kitty lays Logan down on the tablet, as she prepares herself, and as Logan screams as he is sent into the past.

_This is our last chance, Charles. I won’t let you die this time_ , he thinks.


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you for all the attention this is getting! I haven't replied to any comments because I didn't want to seem obnoxious, but I totally will if people would like me to.
> 
> This is now beta'd by [KatiaSwift](http://katiaswift.tumblr.com/)! :D

Erik lies in a meditational state, one that he has carefully perfected over the last ten years. He channels all his rage from the day, the month, the _years_ down through his finger tips and pictures it evaporating into the air, forming into a light mist that lines the walls and ceiling and floor with an imperceptible, metallic sheen. He developed this technique roughly a year into his multiple life sentences, and by this point the method seems to have become more real than imaginary. Sometimes, surrounded by concrete and plastic, Erik pretends he can feel the cool-molten presence of metal vibrating in the air, the very magnetic fields of the earth swirling in eddies around him. Sometimes, it feels as real as the metal he imagines lining the walls. As real as his very bones, it seems.

What feels even more real, what haunts Erik even more than the dampening of his powers, is the sound of Charles’ voice in his head. Intellectually, Erik _knows_ that it can’t be, that after the look Charles gave him at the trial he will never give Erik the honor of his mental company again. But still he hears the whispering of Charles’ voice telling him that his memories are beautiful, that he is so much more than he knows. He feels the warmth of Charles’ mental presence twining with his own, the soft and living something that underlay all their shared moments like a seed waiting to sprout. But all that is gone now, life cut off and halted in its progress, that something slipping away back into the ground, becoming so much dirt. As real as it feels, Erik knows that he’s lost Charles forever. He can’t imagine that their futures will ever intersect, but he can conjure up a thin and slight facsimile of Charles to keep him company.

So Erik watches the glass ceiling and waits, waits for the opportune moment to break free and live his life without Charles to the best of his abilities. (Deep down, though, he recognizes that he won’t be able to leave well enough alone. He will always come running back to Charles, seeking his forgiveness and his approval and companionship, as unlikely as he is to get any of those. Even after all this time, the hope that Charles sparked in Erik’s heart can’t be dulled by even the strongest force of Erik’s pessimism.)

Suddenly, a sharp knock sounds on the glass above. Erik’s eyes flick open, unused to the interruption of his meditation at this time. He looks up and sees what seems to be a _boy with silver hair_ , who smiles mischievously at him. The smile is followed by the slide of a tray. Erik reads the note with a puzzled face and tries to quell the growing of that spark of hope in his chest, the way that it turns to flame and begins to burn.

And then glass is falling all around him as Erik ducks his head and covers himself with his arms.

*

After they have escaped the pentagon in a rickety car that Erik can feel is near stalling out, as they are driving at an alarming speed to God-knows-where, Erik ponders what this man calling himself “Logan” has said and whether he should take his _fucking crazy_ story at face value. For even if it is true, does Erik really want to stop Mystique from killing a man that murdered countless numbers of their kind? Shouldn’t the man be brought to justice, forced to pay for his crimes? Erik’s not at all sure he’s convinced. But one thing halts him from discarding the whole premise—that being, of course, Charles once more. Now that Erik is out of prison, now that he knows it’s a possibility that he can see Charles again, that Charles may even forgive him—he can’t let the chance slip through his hands.

“If I take what you’ve said to be true, then I suppose it was Charles that sent you,” Erik says matter-of-factly, looking at this Logan character with calculating eyes and a feigned air of indifference. Meanwhile, the silver-haired kid Peter is at the wheel with headphones firmly in place over his ears. He appears to be lip syncing to the music or something. Erik decides to ignore him.

“Who the hell is Charles?” Logan says from the front seat, giving Erik a puzzled look.

“Charles. Charles Xavier. You don’t know him?” Erik says, words becoming more and more urgent with each syllable as a growing sense of dread builds in his gut.

“You mean the dead guy that the school’s named after? Why would I know _him_?” Logan says, looking at Erik incredulously. Erik feels his stomach drop out of his body and his heart clench painfully at the word “dead.” Just as Logan is turning away from Erik, he grabs Logan by the arm and pulls him around to face him.

“What the fuck do you mean, ‘dead’?” Erik questions, eyes piercing and desperate. _No, no, no,_ he thinks, _it can’t be. Charles!_

“Look here, bub, I don’t know what you want me to say to you. He died or something and _you_ named the school after him. This Charles guy didn’t send me back here, _you_ did, Professor.”

“Professor? I assure you, I am no professor. That would be _Charles_ , the man you seem to think is _dead_ ,” Erik says, digging his fingers impatiently into Logan’s arm.

“I don’t know what reality you’re living in, Lehnsherr, but where I come from, you’ve built a school dedicated to teaching young mutants. You protected us all, when the sentinels came. Jeez, I guess your older self forgot to warn me you used to be such an asshole.”

“I created the school? What the hell are you talking about—” Erik starts to say, but Logan cuts him off.

“You told me to tell you something if you reacted this way. I have no idea what the fuck it means, but you said that it was all you needed to know to believe me: January 29, 1973 at 2 PM.”

For a few seconds, Erik starts to protest once more—but then everything clicks into place. If, as Logan says, Charles is dead in the future, something must have happened to him. Something _terrible_. If his older self wanted him to know this date, the accident or whatever must happen to Charles on that day.

“Alright,” Erik says. “Alright, I believe you. And I’m willing to help you stop Mystique. But we need to get Charles. We _need_ him, or else I want nothing to do with your plan.” Logan sighs exasperatedly in response, glancing at Peter and tapping him on the shoulder.

“Watcha need, dude? I’m kinda busy here, driving and all,” Peter says, giving them a crooked grin.

“We need you to turn around, kid. We’re heading to Westchester now. Gotta go retrieve some guy named Charles,” Logan says, glancing back at Erik like he’s crazy.

“Ah, cool, man, cool. One Charles coming right up,” Peter says, grin turning a bit insane as he floors the gas petal.

*

It takes them most of what remains of the night to get there, with them arriving a rough four hours later. The sun is just rising in the sky and Erik fully expects to be met with a house full of sleeping mutants. Back when they were at the mansion together, Charles would often not be seen until midday, wandering downstairs yawning and demanding tea.

That is not even close to what they find upon ringing the doorbell.

Logan leads their group past the aging, dilapidated exterior, up the steps to the front door. He rings the doorbell once and Erik waits with his breath stuck in his chest, wide-eyed and vulnerable at the thought of seeing Charles again. But instead of Charles, Hank pokes his head out the door.

“W-what do you want?” he asks timidly, seeming to be the same shy and tentative kid Erik thought Hank left behind when he became beast.

“We’re here to see Charles,” Erik says, stepping forward. Hank’s eyes blink with astonished surprise to see Erik there, giving him a once over as if to make sure he’s real.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Hank says, an unexpected measure of venom lacing his words.

“I need to see Charles. Now let us _in_ ,” Erik says, shoving the open with his powers wrapped about the brass hinges. As he attempts to push past Hank, Erik stops dead in his tracks: what was once a careful piece of art now lies in shambles, papers and various bottles of alcohol spilling over tables and stairs. And in that moment, Erik knows that something is terribly wrong, that everything has changed.

“Hank, who the bloody hell is here so early in the morning? I thought I told you, _no visitors_ ,” says Charles’ voice, echoing down the long, carved-wood halls from upstairs. Erik’s heart beats faster with a nervous tension. Footsteps can be heard descending the stairs in a dissonant pattern. Charles voice has a drunken edge to it that oozes bitterness. Erik’s fear grows. Is Charles _walking_?

And as Charles comes into view, Erik knows for sure that everything _has_ truly changed.

Charles is sporting unkempt, greasy hair and a scraggly beard to match. He’s wearing a dirty tank top with mysterious stains littered across it, a tattered robe that hangs off his clearly thinner frame, and flannel pants. He’s also holding what appears to be a cut crystal glass with something approaching a mixture of vodka and scotch. As his eyes land on Erik—blood shot and baggy, bruised with a sleepless night—they narrow down to slits, the blue of his irises going cold and hard.

“Get out,” he says evenly, clearly holding back a rage that he’s barely containing. Erik steps closer regardless.

“It’s good to see you, old friend,” Erik says, stepping even closer until he’s face to face with Charles.

“I am no friend of yours, you monster,” Charles says, radiating pure hate without the aid of his telepathy.

“Charles, you _have_ to listen to me—” Erik says. All the warning he gets for the next event is the sound of the glass shattering on the floor and the bearing of Charles’ teeth in a fierce and ugly expression of rage. Then he is on the ground, holding his jaw as Charles stumbles forward drunkenly.

“I don’t have to listen to a word you say, my _friend_! Now get the _fuck_ out of my house,” Charles exclaims before stalking off to another room. Erik remains on the floor, stunned. Logan, Peter, and Hank stand by, just as stunned as Erik.

With his jaw stinging and a bruise forming on the side of his face, Erik wants to walk away. He wants to leave and never look back. If he bases his assumptions on Charles’ actions, he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to earn his trust again. But stronger than his wish to give up is the wish to save Charles from whatever awful fate awaits him. For though Erik may have been prepared to live his life without Charles Xavier by his side, he can’t bear the thought of living in an entire world without Charles Xavier.


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been such a long time, everyone! Blah blah school blah blah classes, overwhelming, etc. All that good stuff. Hope you enjoy this chapter! Though I can't say that our boys make much progress in there relationship here.
> 
> Regarding comments, PLEASE tell me if you would like replies. I've been known to reply to every comment in the past, and I will totally retroactively reply to every one on here if that's what you want! Hopefully it won't come off as obnoxious to do so.
> 
> Also, this chapter is unbeta'd because I wanted to get it out fast, so sorry for any mistakes!
> 
> Happy reading!

It takes some convincing to keep Logan from leaving the mansion, but Erik perseveres.

“Why the hell should we stay here with that dick?” Logan says. This may take a lot, Erik thinks. They are sitting at the kitchen table, having sent Peter back home in the questionable car they came there in. He mock-saluted them on his way out, darting out to the car faster than their eyes could process. There was a familiar gleam of pleasure and joy at the use of his powers in Peter’s eyes that reminded Erik of himself when Charles helped him unlock his powers. Huh.

“Because he wasn’t always like that. Because we _need_ him for this plan to work. We can’t do it without him,” Erik says, insulted on Charles’ behalf.

“I’m afraid he won’t be of much help to you,” Hank says, sounding dejected and slightly guilty. Erik grabs him by the front of his shirt and hauls him forwards, glaring at him accusingly.

“ _What the hell did you do to him_?” Erik demands, shaking Hank slightly. He didn’t miss that guilty lilt to Hank’s words and he knows that there must be some explanation for Charles’ complete change of character and appearance, let alone his ability to _walk_. That can’t have come from anyone but Hank.

“All I did was develop a serum that gives him back the use of his legs. He can walk again— _no thanks to you_ —but he no longer has the use of his powers,” Hank says, dislodging Erik’s hands and glaring at him. Stunned into silence, Erik drops back into his seat. Charles Xavier without his powers? When they are such an integral part of him? No wonder he has changed so much.

“If the kid doesn’t even have his powers, why the fuck do we need him? He’s useless,” Logan says, arms folded emphatically across his burly chest. Erik darts a deathly gaze over to Logan.

” _He is not useless_ ,” Erik snarls dangerously. “If anything, he’s the _most important man_ you will ever meet.”

“I always thought that was you, Prof,” Logan says, giving Erik a piercing stare that seems to melt through his hardened exterior to threaten the soft and pulsating thing within.

Too taken aback to protest, Erik watches as Logan leaves the room—lighting a cigar on the way out—and as Hank follows sheepishly behind. It seems that there is still some bite in the boy, however, as he gives Erik a last venom-laced glance before leaving the room.

_Well_ , Erik thinks, _well then_. Logan seems to flit between staunchly neutral and broodingly impatient. Hank is nursing a low-simmering hatred Erik never would have expected. And Charles—where to even _begin_ with Charles?

Fuck if Erik knows what to do with this mess.

*

He keeps trying regardless. For Charles. All of it’s been for Charles, in one way or another—at least everything after Shaw. Charles has been all that’s kept Erik going, some days, and he won’t give up on him. He will save him, or die in the process.

So Erik follows the sound of angry footsteps and breaking glass to the remains of Charles’ old study. Using his powers to make a subtle entrance, Erik pulls the door open a fraction by its metal hinges. Peaking inside, Erik finds Charles pacing back and forth, taking swigs from a bottle. The shattered remains of a glass tumbler lie on the floor nearby, embedding themselves into the expensive rug.

Suddenly, Charles pauses in his path, staring at the half-finished chess game that still remains frozen in time—a constant reminder of the friendship they once had. Erik’s heart clenches as he watches Charles sweep the chess set to the ground, pieces flying everywhere as the wooden board clatters off the nearby end table. Deciding to make his presence known, Erik swings the door the rest of the way open and steps inside.

“I was winning that one, I’ll have you know,” Erik muses, strolling into the room with his hands in his pockets, exuding a false air of ease.

“What the fuck are you still here for? I made myself _very clear_ , Erik, and I won’t have a man like you staying here a moment longer. Now get the hell out like I told you to,” Charles bites out past clenched teeth, clearly restraining himself from bringing physical altercation into the mix once more. Erik’s eyes narrow and he pulls his hands from his pockets.

“I’m not leaving, Charles. I won’t leave you like this,” Erik says with conviction.

“Like you didn’t leave me on the beach? Like that, Erik? Because honestly I’m not certain that your word counts for anything, anymore,” Charles says. It stings, but rings with a measure of truth that Erik refuses to examine too closely.

“You told me to go, Charles! You told me to go, so I went!” Erik counters.

“You think that’s what I wanted? You honestly think that I had any means of coherent thought after you _shot me in the back_? I was in pain, Erik. So much pain . . .” Charles whispers the last part, folding inwards and shivering at the memory.

“And how was I supposed to know that? How? You say one thing and you mean another, Charles. That kind of duplicity doesn’t suit you,” Erik says, moving into Charles space accusingly.

“You abandoned me! You took her away and you abandoned me!” Charles yells, grasping Erik’s shirt in his hands and shaking him.

“But didn’t you do the same, Charles? Was it not you who kept yourself sequestered in this rotting shell of a mansion while our brothers and sisters died under the hands of so-called scientists? You abandoned us all!” Erik returns, feeling his familiar hatred well up within his chest, burning and spilling forth from his lips as he shoves Charles backwards. A measure of guilt passes across Charles face for a split second.

“I was falling apart! I’ve been broken into pieces, over and over. I tried so hard, Erik, I tried so hard and it all came to _nothing_ ,” Charles says, clear blue eyes welling with the shine of tears.

“And yet you give up your powers! You give up your powers just so you can _walk_ , leaving the rest of us to fend for ourselves. We needed you, Charles. The _world_ needed you and you weren’t there,” Erik says, voice returning to its normal volume as he suppresses the urge to wipe away the tear that trails down Charles’ face. The gesture is far too intimate, far too showing for this moment or any other. Their relationship always skirted around the edge of something more, but any hopes of that blossoming have been crushed under the weight of ten years of silence.

“I didn’t give up my powers so I could walk. I gave them up so I could _sleep_. All the voices—I couldn’t—I’m _sorry_ , but—” Charles whispers, eyes going dark with remembered sleepless nights and clearly holding back tears. Charles turns swiftly away from Erik, hiding his face from view as he chokes out a sob. Stunned into silence once more, Erik stands still, trying not to let his heart break in two right there and then.

After some time, Charles voice breaches the silence. It has an edge of calm and resignation.

“You can stay if you want to, but don’t expect any favors and _certainly_ don’t expect me to play civil,” Charles says, still facing the window with his back turned to Erik. He can see Charles’ hand tapping out an impatient rhythm on his thigh. Some of the tension seems to have seeped from the conversation, wetting the air and leaving room for breath once more.

“You always did love your games, though, Charles,” Erik says, pushing his luck a bit. But he can’t resist a chance at having some of their old ease back.

Charles turns to face him, eyes a piercing blue and his mouth set in a firm line.

“I quite think we’ve dispensed with games, Erik,” he says carefully, before turning away once more.

“I’ll see you at breakfast,” Erik calls out, letting the door swing shut behind him. He’s still too much of a coward to wait and see what expression graces Charles’ features. Erik would rather hope in vain, all the way until morning.


	5. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this took so long! It's a bit longer than the other chapters, so hopefully that helps. I've been busy with finals and reverse bang, but should be able to update more often while I'm still on break.
> 
> Happy reading!

Erik wakes with a start the next morning, feeling overwarm and sweaty. His sheets are tangled hopelessly about his form. He can vaguely recall the remnants of a nightmare lingering at the edges of his consciousness, but the contents remain a mystery. If he didn’t want to be so desperately in denial, perhaps he could even remember the shadow of Charles’ name on his lips.

Heading down to breakfast, Erik moves cautiously. The old house creaks with each step Erik takes. A fine layer of dust has settled on everything, clogging the air. There is evidence of neglect all around: lampshades set askew, carpets crooked, and mirrors unpolished. The house seems to be littered with the detritus of Charles’ pain. Empty and broken glass tumblers sit on surfaces of all types, while bottles of scotch and whiskey—opened and unopened—are strewn about. Indications of Hank’s presence are fewer, but still remain in scattered lab notes and microscope slides left unattended. All in all, it is nothing like the mansion Erik stayed in when they were training all those years ago. The light, the _hope_ has gone out of it and left a crumbling shell in its wake.

Entering the kitchen, Erik surveys the scene before him. Logan sits at the table puffing away at a cigar that came from God-knows-where. Hank is gauging some schematics spread across the other end of the table, clearly absorbed enough not to notice Erik’s presence. Charles, on the other hand, can be seen standing at the counter pouring what seems to be vodka into his tea as he studiously ignores Erik’s presence. He’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday, with maybe a couple of additional stains.

“Good morning,” Erik ventures, directing the sentiment at Charles.

“Morning Erik,” Charles spits, the words nearly blended together with an undertone of hate. If his eyes aren’t deceiving him, Erik believes that Charles pours a little extra vodka into the tea cup after their brief exchange. Feigning nonchalance, Erik presses on:

“Well aren’t you just a lovely ball of sunshine today.”

“I could do with a bit less sarcasm,” Charles bites out.

“You could also do with a bit less vodka, I’d venture,” Erik says, letting some of his annoyance and building rage slip through.

“It isn’t up to you to police my drinking habits, I’ll have you know, Erik,” Charles says, turning away from the counter to move towards the breakfast table. “Now leave me to my breakfast, if you will.”

“Breakfast doesn’t feel like much of a priority with a _war_ coming, Charles,” Erik says, irritation bleeding into every word. He may care a great deal about Charles—sometimes it feels like he cares too much—but Charles’ lack of consideration for mutantkind in his current state is trying Erik’s patience immensely. Hank looks up from his work with knowing eyes, Logan seeming to have explained the situation to him. From Charles’ look of exasperation, Hank has not yet had the chance to relay this information to Charles.

“Erik, we have had this discussion, if you recall. There is no war coming! The only war I can foresee is the one _you_ seem so set on waging on the humans, and _that_ is none of my business,” Charles says, voice rising.

“Well if you would just _look_ at the signs, Charles, you would see that the humans will never accept us—” Erik begins.

“Actually, kid, there _is_ a war coming. And trust me—it’s like nothing you’ve ever seen,” Logan cuts in, his presence all but forgotten by Erik. “Haven’t you taken a minute to think about why I’m here? In my future, nobody gets out alive. We need to prevent this war, and the only way this idiot here is going to help is if _you_ come along with. So you better get your ass in gear, or I’ve come a long way for nothing.”

“Whatin the _hell_ is this man talking about, Erik? And do you honestly expect me to believe that you’re from the future?” Charles questions, looking far too drunk for this conversation. He chuckles condescendingly after the second sentence, looking incredulous. “What could this war _possibly_ have to do with me?”

“It has to do with all of us, bub,” Logan says, looking inches away from punching Charles square in the face. “Mutants are almost totally wiped out. If that doesn’t concern you, you little shit, then there’s no reason for us to even be here. We can stop Mystique just as easily _without_ you.”

“Fuck off. All of this is _none_ of my concern. Mutantkind stopped being my responsibility when everyone _left_ me. A war, stopping Raven—I’m clearly not drunk enough for this,” Charles says, massaging the place between his eyebrows and moving to pour more alcohol into his tea cup. Erik marches forwards—determined to make Charles _see_ how imperative it is that they prevent this war, if only to save Charles himself—and grabs the bottle from Charles.

“I think you’ve had enough, Charles,” he snaps. “This war concerns you, _I know it does._ The Charles Xavier I know would never turn his back on fellow mutants, let alone his own sister.” Charles’ eyes slant with a hate wholly unfamiliar. They glare in a seeming stalemate until Charles finally speaks:

“Well maybe that Charles doesn’t _live_ here anymore. Have you ever fucking thought of that?”

With that, he stalks from the room, not waiting for Erik to follow. Erik follows him into the living room regardless, intent on continuing the seemingly futile conversation. Charles moves to stand behind the sofa, seeming to deliberately place the bulk of it between them. Erik turns his stare towards the wall, waiting for Charles to make the first move. They stand in silence as Erik pretends to peruse the books on a nearby bookshelf.

“I may have allowed you to stay here, but I will not put up with such talk in my house,” Charles says with no preamble. Erik turns sharply to face Charles, rounding on him with a fury that burns deep in the cavity of his chest.

“Oh, because your behavior _clearly_ qualifies as hospitable,” Erik retorts.

“I never promised hospitality, Erik, let alone civility. All your talk of a coming war is not welcome here and certainly won’t earn you your keep.”

“But what if it’s true, Charles? What if everything Logan has told us is true and a war that wipes out our people comes? Can you honestly live with yourself if that happens and you’ve done nothing to stop it? I certainly can’t, and I don’t think you can either.”

“Erik, the man claims to be from the _future_! It’s ludicrous, not to mention probably complete bullshit. You really think I’m willing to chase Raven all over the earth when she so obviously despises my company? When the man telling me to stop her from doing God-knows-what is likely a madman? I’m sorry, but all of this is far more than I can handle when I can barely sleep through the night without waking up screaming.” He says the last part quietly, voice leveling down as internal pain fills his gaze. Feeling too perturbed to care in that moment, Erik presses on:

“If you had your powers, you would know. You would know it to be true.”

“Well I don’t have my powers!” Charles yells, face crumpling, then smoothing over in a hardened mask of apathy. “I think it would be best if you left now, Erik. It was clearly a mistake to allow you to stay here.” With that, he turns to go once more, only to stop in his tracks at Erik’s next words:

“What is it you want from me exactly, Charles? Do you want me to apologize, to _beg_ for your forgiveness? If you won’t tell me, how do you expect me to know?” Erik snaps. Charles spins on his heel to face Erik, his eyes hardening further as his face takes on a haughty expression.

“And what would someone like you—a murderer!—know about forgiveness? I know what you did to the president, Erik, and that is a crime I simply cannot forgive. Killing an innocent man—that’s below even _you_ ,” Charles bites out with venom, pointing a finger accusingly at Erik.

“That’s because I didn’t kill the president, Charles,” Erik says tiredly, ignoring the implied threat. He lowers his defenses, hoping that full-blown honesty will bring them closer when it seems nothing else will.

“The bullet curved, Erik. Now who do we know who can do _that_ , I wonder?”

“The bullet curved because I was trying to save him! He was one of us and I was trying to save him!” Erik exclaims, fighting back the urge to shake Charles until he somehow becomes the man he once knew.

“Then why did he die? Why did he die, Erik, if you were so set on saving him?” Charles says, a tiny sliver of belief sifting through the suspicion.

“Because I failed!” Erik yells all at once. Then, quieter:

“I failed. I failed us all, but most importantly—I failed _you_. And for that, my friend, I am so terribly sorry.”

Charles looks shocked out of his drunken stupor. As Erik watches, a hint of tears begin to fill the corners of his eyes. Charles leans forward, bracing his hands on the back of the sofa, eyes downcast. After what seems to be an eternity, he looks up straight at Erik.

“You must think me such a fool, Erik,” he says, shaking his head self-deprecatingly. The tears begin to fall as Erik looks on. “All these years, spent _hating_ you—and I left you alone to rot in a cell one hundred floors below the ground for a crime you didn’t commit. I’m the one who should be sorry, my friend.”

At first, Erik is too stunned to respond, all the words once lodged in his throat running scarce in the face of such sudden vulnerability. Charles honestly blames himself, after all Erik’s done to him? After robbing him of the use of his legs, of his sister, of his hope? The change is so easy, so all-at-once that Erik can barely breathe. For a few, long moments—as Charles lets out a soft sob—Erik can only stare and think of how much he blames himself for every bad thing that has ever happened to Charles.

“Your life would have been much easier if you’d never met me,” Erik whispers. The words float between them, dashed to pieces by the muffled noises of birdsong from outside. Charles gives no indication of having heard anything at all, still crying quietly to himself.

“Blame me, Charles,” he says, louder. “Blame me for it. I never went out of my way to give you any indication that I hadn’t been the one to kill the president. You gave me so much room to tell you, to make clear what you couldn’t have known. But at the trial, I disappointed you. I am not the good man you think me to be. It’s all my fault and I won’t have you blaming yourself for even a fraction of a second.” Somewhere in the middle of his speech, Charles looks up sharply at Erik, clearly shocked to hear the depth of sorrow in his voice. In the recesses of Charles’ eyes, Erik thinks he can see a hint of the man he once was spark to life. But once Erik finishes, Charles just stares; neither accepting nor rejecting the apology, but leaving things hanging somewhere in between. When the silence stays unbroken and Erik registers that it will remain so, he turns towards the chessboard sitting between the armchairs in the living room.

“Chess?” he asks, allowing room for Charles’ silence, for the emotions to run their course.

“It’s been a while since I’ve played,” Charles says, clearing his throat. “And I may be a bit too drunk to do so now. But I’d like that, my friend. For now I think I’ll take a short nap.”

“Rest well,” Erik says as Charles moves to climb the stairs. Charles responds with only a small, tentative smile—the first true sliver of happiness that Erik has seen on his face since he arrived at the mansion. And then Charles is gone, leaving Erik to contemplate the exchange alone.


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW, GUESS WHO HASN'T UPDATED IN 7 MONTHS. UGH, so so sorry! I've had a lot going on, so updating just wasn't in the cards. But here it is! Another chapter of arguing! YAY.
> 
> With bonus art of angry pants hobo Charles by yours truly!

Charles doesn’t appear again until late afternoon—looking, if anything, even more tired. There are bags under his eyes and his hands shake a bit with lack of sleep. Erik glances warily at him before looking away, wondering if their reconciliation has stuck. Despite Charles’ apology and sudden forgiveness, the things he said to Erik still cut him to the marrow. It is clear that, no matter how much they make up for all the years of resentment, things will never be the same between them. Everything has changed and they hardly know each other at all, nowhere near as deeply as they once had.

At first, Charles looks around aimlessly. Then, to Erik’s dismay, Charles makes a beeline for the liquor cabinet, hands still shaking. As he pours himself a glass of scotch, his eyes look faraway and his brows are pinched together. Erik walks carefully over to Charles, aiming for a much more gentle approach than this morning. As Erik reaches out and places a hand on Charles’ shoulder, Charles starts a bit, spilling scotch onto the fine cabinet and cursing under his breath before turning to face Erik.

“Bloody hell, you startled me,” Charles says, a note of frustration coloring his words and making Erik’s heart clench to hear the slight anger in Charles’ voice.

“Charles, I meant it this morning when I said you’d had enough. Please put the scotch away,” Erik says gently, pulling the tumbler from Charles’ grasp. In response, Charles’ eyes go hard once more before they soften in resignation, a sigh escaping his lips as he massages his temple.

“And I meant it when I said it wasn’t your job to monitor my habits, Erik. I hate to tell you this, but I’m afraid the withdrawal is more than I can handle right now,” Charles says, that same resignation coloring his words. His voice sounds tired beyond reason, aching and low and lacking any of the strength it used to hold. He reaches out for the tumbler again and Erik lets him take it back, surprising them both.

“As long as you don’t take it too far,” Erik says softly, testing the waters a bit. Charles merely sighs once more and moves to leave, turning momentarily to thank Erik before disappearing.

*

Erik is reading a newspaper absently, worrying about Charles underneath the surface of his thoughts. Charles is going through withdrawal. Erik knew he had been drinking a lot, but it seems that Charles has become an alcoholic in earnest. Sure, he drank a lot when they were ten years younger and recruiting mutants across the country. But never like _this_ , never so much that a few hours without alcohol left him shaking and needy.

Then the guilt bubbles up once more in the pit of Erik’s stomach. Would Charles have gone down this path, had Erik been there? What if Erik had stayed, after the beach and Charles’ injury? For a few moments—fleeting and painful, bittersweet—Erik allows himself to imagine a life free of hate, a life with Charles. They could have started the school together, learned together, grown older together. What would that have been like?

But you can live too much in the past, Erik knows full well. So he banishes the thoughts from his mind and refocuses on the reality of the thing. Charles was shot because of Erik, became an alcoholic because of Erik, has had his life essentially ruined and made less because of Erik.

Erik sets down the newspaper and rubs a hand across his eyes to banish those thoughts as well. All that lies that way is darkness, and Erik has known too much of darkness. So he picks his newspaper back up and continues reading, praying to a God Erik hasn’t believed in since his mother was shot that Charles is sleeping well. That somehow, barring all obstacles, Charles can return to his true self; shining an optimism and kindness that drew Erik near, filling his heart with a love that is too stubborn to abate.

Whether that self has been merely obscured as opposed to utterly eradicated by years of bitterness and pain remains to be seen. All Erik can do is hope, hope in Charles’ place.

*

The truce lasts laughably short, their strategy meeting for how best to avoid the coming war taking a turn for the ugly when the topic of Trask is breached. Erik watches as Charles goes from reasonable to irate in three seconds flat. Though nowhere near as toxic as their conversations following Erik and Logan’s arrival, the fight that ensues still leaves a sour taste in Erik’s mouth nonetheless.

They’re standing around the dining room table, Hank pointing to blueprints and maps while Logan props his feet on a nearby arm chair, boots denting and staining the delicately-tufted surface of the upholstery. Charles stands unaware, scowling at Erik with enough venom that Erik wonders whether their truce still stands. Erik leans against the far wall of the room, arms crossed and body rigid.

“A man like that shouldn’t be _allowed_ to live,” Erik grinds out through his teeth.

“Yes, _Erik_ , that’s all well and good, but Logan here seems to think that Trask’s death at Raven’s hands is the catalyst for the war! I hardly think you killing him will change much at all,” Charles retorts.

“He’s got a point,” Logan says, exhaling a cloud of cigar smoke and stubbing out the actual cigar on a nearby tea saucer.

“Logan, _honestly_ , what have I said about the china?!” Charles yelps, sounding momentarily like the man Erik once knew. His heart aches with the familiarity, the nostalgia. Then Charles seems to process what he’s done and snaps back into his current mood with a long-suffering sigh.

“Sorry, sorry,” Logan says, not sounding sorry in the least. Charles shakes his head minutely to indicate that it doesn’t really matter.

“Either way, we can’t afford to take chances with this. If what Logan here is saying is true, this is our one and _only_ opportunity to change the future. Outright murder is _not always the answer,_ Erik.”

“And foolish pacifism at the expense of our people isn’t either! Charles, have you even seriously thought about all the murders and crimes that man has committed, all for the sake of so-called progress?” Erik takes some strides forward, getting into Charles’ face and raising his voice tinted with accusation. Charles refuses to back down, eyes glittering in challenge.

“And what, exactly, have you done to help ‘our people’ besides murder and threaten? That’s terrorism, Erik, and as much as you may wish that it weren’t true, your brand of advocacy is all too close to fear tactics, plain and simple. I would have thought you’d had enough of that at the hands of Nazis.”

“You take that back. _You fucking take that back,_ Charles. What do you know about me, about my pain?” Erik says, taking a step back, eyes sharp. His voice is eerily calm and matter-of-fact.

“Everything! I know everything, Erik, I can’t _help_ but know. I’ve known since we met in the water, I’ve known all too well _exactly_ what your pain felt like. My powers don’t allow me to selectively hear only the good things.”

“But you don’t have your powers, now, do you? What insight into my mind could you possibly have, when you’ve given up _who you are_ for the use of your _legs_? At least I’m not a coward.” Erik retorts. That shuts Charles up, leaving him indignant, eyebrows pushed together and mouth open in defense.

He slowly shuts his mouth, closes his eyes momentarily, and strides from the room.

“There you go, running away again. Is that all you’re good at, Charles? Hiding?” Erik raises his voice to shout at Charles’ retreating back. Charles whips around to face Erik again …

… only for his legs to crumple beneath him as he cries out in pain.

“Charles!”

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this thing is taking forever to finish, isn't it? I'm SO SORRY for the wait. Thank you all for your continued patience and support and interest, it means the world to me! <3
> 
> Good news is this: though this is a shorter chapter, chapters 7 and 8 are well on their way to being finished! Plus I'm on break from college, so that too will help me to update more often! Expect two more chapters within the next few days!!!
> 
> The boys are finally making some progress towards reconciliation! Enjoy! :D

As Charles falls to the ground, Erik lunges forward without thinking, trying and failing to catch him. Charles’ legs buckle and fold painfully beneath him, his hands coming up to clasp his temples and cover his ears. A pained cry leaves his lips and Erik feels his heart break a little bit. All Erik can see is vast ocean and all he can feel is hot sand beneath his feet, momentarily. He’s been here before, he’s fucked up _again_ , the scorching Cuba sun beating down on him from above—

“Aaaagh!” Charles cries, interrupting Erik’s vision of the past, Hank and Logan rushing past him to attempt to help Charles to his feet. When Charles tries to stand, his legs give way once more and he slides to the ground, shaking with full-body tremors and tears streaking his face. Taking a step forward, Erik moves to console Charles, to ask him what’s going on, to do _something_ , when:

“Come off it, Erik, you can hardly help me now,” Charles grits out, hands still clasped at his temples and body still shaking.

“How did you—?” Erik starts to ask, only to have Charles interrupt him.

“As these go,” he whispers, one unsteady hand moving to ghost over useless legs then reaching back up to tap his temple. “This comes back, Erik. They all come _back_ …” With the last word a pained whisper, Charles squeezes his eyes shut once more and curls further in on himself.

Hank, having left the room, rushes back in with a syringe in his hand, the serum a pale, sickly yellow.

“Here, I doubled the dose since you missed one,” Hank says, handing the syringe to Charles. Erik furrows his brows in consternation, mouth falling open to voice his disagreement—only for Charles to raise a hand that halts Erik mid-speech.

“Erik, if you would _kindly_ stay out of this, that would be splendid,” Charles says through his teeth, preparing the syringe with one hand while he rolls up the sleeve of his ratty robe with the other. “I know you think me a coward and a fool, but it is honestly none of your business what I do with my body and my powers.”

“It might not be my business, Charles, but it is the business of mutants _everywhere_. Without you, do you honestly think that Raven can be stopped? She’s always valued your opinion over mine, old friend,” Erik says. Erik desperately hopes that Charles believes him, for this he knows to be true. Raven can’t be stopped unless Charles is there.

“Raven’s long given up listening to me, Erik. Or have you forgotten that she chose _you_ on the beach?”

“But her heart has always been with you, her brother, Charles. Don’t tell me that she even for a second stopped loving you. She was never far from leaving and finding you, you know, when we were together,” Erik says.

“And just how _together_ were you, my _friend_? I know you kissed her all those years ago, I saw it in her mind. Do not lie to me, Erik,” Charles bites out, the syringe still hovering over his arm, clenched in a white-knuckled hand. The absurdity of what Charles is suggesting causes Erik to snort derisively. How completely and utterly _ridiculous_ , for Charles to think that he ever could of loved anyone but—

“I would never take advantage of her in that way, Charles, you must know that. It was never _her_ I was in love with! It was always—” Erik starts, then pauses just in time. But apparently not soon enough, considering the look on Charles’ face and the way his cheeks—once flushed with rage—go white with shock. Simultaneously, he feels the barely-there presence of Charles in his mind vanish completely.

Shit. _Shit_. Erik had completely forgotten that Charles was reading his mind. And now he knows everything. Erik braces himself for rejection, for rage, but it doesn’t come.

“Erik—you—you—I never dared to _think_ that you—” Charles starts then stops, staring with open wonder at Erik. Tears fill his eyes and he turns his face away, clearly overcome.

“Charles, I—” Erik starts only to cut himself off, turning his head away and blushing furiously.

After a moment passes, Charles sets down the syringe and speaks again, though not in the way Erik hoped he would:

“Hank, could you get me my wheelchair? It seems we’ve got some planning to do.”

Hank retrieves the wheelchair, Logan helps Charles up, and Charles wheels out of the room without a word.

*  
In his time in prison, Erik did a lot of sitting and thinking—so much so that he’s become quite good at it. So, in the wake of his revelation and Charles’ puzzling reaction, he sits and he thinks.

 _“Erik—you—you—I never dared to_ think _that you—”_ And just what, exactly, does _that_ mean? It was almost as if Charles was implying that he loved—

No. It can’t be. How could they have been so foolish, so blind? There’s no way they had _both_ fallen so hard and so fast, barely having time to think it through. How could Charles—proper, good boy Charles Xavier—ever have the same proclivities as Erik?

It’s not as if Erik never saw the men with the pink triangles, in the camps. The men who were berated for being different, being homosexual. Erik was terrified that Herr Doktor would figure out that Erik was similarly inclined. And then there was Magda and there was Anya and grief and rage and Erik quickly dismissed those feelings as a passing phase, a fluke.

But then he met Charles Xavier—Charles Xavier who told him he was not alone, that he had a place and a home, if he wanted it. That he had a friend who would stand by him regardless of what he had done, of how much blood was on his hands.  And Erik fell for him, God help him, he fell so hard and so fast. And he couldn’t help but want more than friendship from this bright and beautiful man.

He told Charles they were brothers, once. But he didn’t mean it. No, they were always something more than they should be, than they ever _could_ be.

But now—now, it seemed that Charles might feel the same. It seemed that Charles had been hiding and hoping and longing just as much as Erik. Perhaps more, if the sheer amazement and wonder in his voice was anything to go by.

With that, Erik comes to a decision. Either he can run away or he can confront Charles—and to risk Charles' life is simply not an option.


End file.
